


Jambon Beurre

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: British TV Celebrities RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: Dining, Eating, First Kiss, First Time, Hotels, Longing, Lust, M/M, Paris (City), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-14 18:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20605079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: I have to be honest - I'm more than a little in love with Fred Sirieix from First Dates (as if anyone would be interested in the date after walking past gorgeous Fred!) and I very much enjoyed the recent BBC series "Remarkable Places To Eat" and especially the Paris episode with Michel Roux Jr - because what could be more better than one dreamy Frenchman? Two dreamy Frenchmen! And so this fic happened.





	Jambon Beurre

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is a work of fiction involving real people written by myself - it is a completely made-up fantasy and is in no way intended to cause offence.

It wasn't the kind of Parisian scenery Michel was used to - and that statement could have been taken both ways.

He was curled up on the edge of a damp and tired bed, looking out of a window which might as well have not been there - for hardly any daylight could force its way into the room from behind the opposing brick wall, which was about a metre away from the glass. It was a comedown for someone who could afford the finest hotels in the city - but, on this occasion - he didn't really care. Muscular arms dragged him back to the centre of the bed, hands roaming his naked flesh - and he found, to say that Sirieix was so in-shape - that he didn't feel embarrassed, regardless of all of Fred's jokes and jibes about his age; he tried to keep himself fit and healthy, and Fred _certainly_ didn't seem to mind what Michel had to offer.

"What are you doing all the way over there, mon cherie?" came a voice from behind him, and Michel turned over. It wasn't the kind of Parisian scenery he was used to, but he _liked _what he saw: Fred was nude, and barely covered in blankets - he was aroused, smiling, and waiting for him on the bed. And Michel could barely wipe the grin off his face when he remembered how the day had brought them to be here - a day he had been dreaming of for a very long time indeed.

Michel Roux Jr came to Paris often, but usually alone, on business, or with his wife and family. But, this time, he was working - so technically on business, but not for his restaurant - he was filming a new programme called "Remarkable Places to Eat" for the BBC. Michel considered Paris to be one of the most romantic cities in the world. Despite all of the clichés, it truly was enchanting, with its fine wine and even better food, stunning Parisian architecture shadowed by the landmark that was the Eiffel Tower, watching tourist river boats winding down the Seine, observing local folk so busy, so frantic, so _French_ in their lives.

Paris was something else. Paris was where he had learned his trade as a young man; Paris made him feel alive; Paris made him feel giddy and in _love_, and he wouldn't usually bring along another man as his travelling companion, for obvious reasons - he wasn't in the habit of wining and dining gentlemen. Or, at least, he'd managed to convince _himself _that he wasn't interested in the male of the species - not after _Fred_ had left his life, anyway. Ever since that man had exited his restaurant, leaving his maitre d' role behind, Michel's heart had resumed a steady beat, calm and easy once again. How could the BBC _ever _have known?

How could they have known that sending the pair of them to Paris together was like waving a red rag to a bull, like rubbing a non-safety match against a rough stone and igniting it with a single strike? Yes, their paths had crossed many times since those days of Fred Sirieix working at Le Gavroche, Michel's Mayfair restaurant, and they had filmed together often in the past - but sending them_ here?_ To _Paris? _ How would he be able to stop his own heart working up a frenzy? The meal they went on to share together at La Tour D'Argent had been exceptional, the view of Notre Dame beautiful and whimsical, the _company_ all too wonderful - and Michel had nearly cast the silverware and duck-filled dishes to the floor in a bid to grab him and kiss him there and then, Paris watching on the background.

Perhaps this was all very civilised and formulaic: two people gazing starry-eyed at one another (although one being blissfully ignorant to the other's feelings), fairy-tale scenery framed by grand windows, Michelin-starred food on the plates, candles lit on the table and waiter service - it was the perfect romance, on paper - like something out of a book - and that was what Michel liked, because he _understood_ this world - it was his world; it was _Fred's_ world. Even if his heart leapt every time Fred said a word, he knew that his feelings were being amplified by the setting and - as he simply _had _ to remain dignified throughout the course of the dinner, or else face being thrown out for inappropriate behaviour - he _knew _that the scene would pass and that he would get over it.

But now, the morning after, there were no cameras, and Michel was showing Fred the place they would be dining on-screen the next day, and they were outside, down a quiet and seedy little street, cradling the baguettes they would be eating for their lunch - and now _Fred_ was eating his jambon beurre, wrapping his large lips seductively around the bread, forcing the long item into his mouth, and out again, ferally tearing chunks off of the meal, chewing like a hungry beast and licking sauce from the corner of his mouth with an extended, pink, probing tongue. This was something which Michel had not prepared himself for. And he would never be able to stop the desire which had began to surge through his body. Fred was gorgeous; he'd always known it. He'd always tried to ignore it, but he'd damned well known it.

"What?" Sirieix asked, catching Roux Jr staring at him and wondering if there was still butter in his bushy beard, "Do you want to try some of mine?" The pair had different sandwiches: Fred had the traditional jambon beurre with pickles, whereas Michel had opted for one with a picante sauce, and chives. "You can 'ave some if you wan--"

His mouth, still half-stuffed with bread, was instantly captured in Michel's - the chef firmly pressed his lips against Fred's and passionately thrust the Frenchman against the grey masonry, leaving him breathless and dizzy as they parted.

"You have no idea how long I have waited to do that," Roux Jr gasped.

"Really?" Fred was rather shocked - he had a knack of always sounding oddly surprised at everything, but Michel felt sure that the shock was genuine. How could he not have known? He really _did_ have no idea how long Michel had being waiting to do that. "Oh my god... Even when you were my boss?"

The older man nodded, running a tongue along the outer rim of his mouth, the taste of Fred's gherkins lingering on his lips.

"And 'ow was eet?" Fred replied, smugly, his accent thick.

"The best jambon beurre I've ever tasted," Michel growled, cupping the back of Fred's shaven head and diving in for another kiss.

The only thing was - Fred wanted to know if they could have _exactly_ the same lunch the next day; Michel couldn't see any reason why they couldn't have the same tonight for _dinner _as well. And _supper_ too if they were lucky.


End file.
